Submerged
by hipsterism
Summary: After the loss of Stef Dawson, the cast of Mockingjay has to scramble to find a new actress. They search and search for a week and a half before finding the perfect girl: a sixteen-year-old girl from South Dakota. After a blossoming relationship with Sam Claflin, the producers of Mockingjay decide to put this girl in a fake Hunger Games, but without her knowing.


Hands shake. Tears fall. We all stand above the casket, our heads bowed in reverence. Her family crowds by her head, weeping. All we can do is close our eyes, turn our heads, and pray for a new beginning. A new tomorrow. We know it will be so very, very hard to find another to replace her. Stef will never be replaced in our hearts. All of us, including me, have treasured her as a friend, a fellow actress, an ally. They teased that since we played lovers in the movies, we should be enemies in real life, but nobody could be mad at Stef for very long. She was too sweet and kind for that.

I walk beside her, my hands folded into the coat of my tux I rented just for this day. My eye catches on Josh and Liam, both outfitted in tuxes, and who are huddled by Jen and Jena, also outfitted neatly in black dresses. The four of them talk in whispers, and Jen bites her lip for a moment. They cast worried glances at me, and when they see me watching them, turn back and whisper more.

One part of me wants to run over to them and demand to know what they're hiding. The other part tells me to let them be. They're mourning, too. They miss her. They wish she were still alive so the show could go on.

But she isn't.

I never had any romantically feelings toward Stef. We were just friends. We talked, laughed, had coffee occasionally. We told jokes on set to get the jitters out.

And, when my wife stunned me, tripped me, and made me fall flat on my face in an affair I did not see coming, when she ripped out my heart and left me with the broken pieces, and when I came to the set of a day in filming in tears, she was there. Everyone there came to my side and comforted me. They helped me to relax, and to let go. Stef was there, biting her lip and getting me tea. Josh was there, trying to calm me down and asking me if I was going to be okay. Jen was there to squeeze my shoulder and crack a few jokes at her expense. Liam was there to tell me that I could toughen it out. I knew I could.

It just felt impossible at the time.

"Sam?" A voice jolts me out of the memory, and I wipe the stray tears away with my sleeve. Francis Lawrence, our director, is standing before me in a suit, looking forlorn.

"Y-yes?" I ask, trying to erase my look of hopelessness.

"When would you like to look into re-casting?" He asks, not meeting my gaze. I sigh, running my hands through my chemically-dyed hair.

"Can we not think about that right now? Can we just mourn her, and move on when we are able to? Is that too much to ask?" I ask, my hands shaking as if I'm on drug withdrawal. I tuck them in my pockets to keep them occupied, my eyes flickering from Stef's casket to Josh to my shirt to the ground.

Now it's Francis' turn to sigh. He turns, looking at each of Stef's family members. He's probably assessing my question, as he is biting his lip.

"Sam, I wish I could say no. I really do." He turns to me, his face a mix of pity, sadness, and weariness. "If I were just your friend, I would wait for as long as you would like me to. But, Sam, I'm not just your friend. I'm the director of a movie-a very popular movie-that has a deadline. I'm sorry. I will give you a day to think about it, and the rest of the cast, and come to me when you have a plan." I don't even have the time to say anything, as he turns and walks over to who I assume is Stef's mother. She has tears streaming in rivulets down her face, and is holding a handkerchief to her mouth and nose. A man I assume is her husband is standing next to her with his arm around her shoulders. I want to walk over and offer my condolences to them, but I don't know how to do it without feeling awkward. Instead, I walk over to Stef's headstone while some men are digging the hole for Stef's coffin in the dirt. I look at her name, and trace the indented concrete with my finger.

"If only you knew how much pain you've wrought upon us, Stef." I murmur, a sigh making its way through my throat and out into the air, where I didn't want it to go the moment I made the sound. I don't clasp my hand to my mouth-as that would be totally distracting and bring attention upon myself-but I instead clamp my mouth shut and just focus on her name. Stef. Her full name was Stefanie, and she told us never to call her it. I joked around with her from time to time, saying her full name just to make her mad. She hated it, but I loved seeing her flustered, since she usually isn't. Well, wasn't.

It feels so hard to think of Stef as past.

She was.

She did.

She had.

I still want to think of her as still here, as still alive and still kicking. But, alas, she isn't.

That is one thing she can still be: dead.


End file.
